


montreal

by achapterends



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 06:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11800365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achapterends/pseuds/achapterends
Summary: oui j'ai pleuré mais ce jour-là1.741 million people and he doesn’t know a single one.





	montreal

**Author's Note:**

> sigh. i miss zouis.
> 
> title and summary from montreal by the weeknd.
> 
> hope u enjoy, leave kudos & comments if u do!! <3

The city never sleeps, is one thing. Louis knows this because he never sleeps these days either. Instead, he stands in the foyer of his penthouse apartment and presses his face against the cold glass and looks across the streets below him. They’re all lit up still, a bustle and blur of cars and people. He wonders what might be happening down there. If there’s a man proposing to his girlfriend in the quiet of a romantic restaurant. If she said yes and jumped into his arms, or threw her plate of spaghetti over his head. He wonders if the businessman behind the wheel of his expensive car had to pull a double shift at the office to be able to afford to feed his family after splurging unnecessarily on a Range Rover. On a darker note, he wonders if there’s a victim of a backward crime bleeding out in a dirty alley. All at once, there’s life down there. It all seems so far away from Louis.

He breathes out a long exhale and fogs up the glass. As soon as he lifts his finger to draw patterns in it, it clears up. He’s not really sure what time it is, but he’s dead on his feet and his eyes are burning and he just wants to be able to sleep. He’s a barely functioning insomniac as of late, spending his days blinking at the TV, eating microwave meals and waiting for the phone to ring.

The phone never rings. He holds it in his hands, sometimes, and stares at the screen. It would be so easy to dial the number. It’d be a lot less agonising than waiting for the number to dial him first. 

Louis takes a few steps back from the window. It’s an impressive view, no doubt - he’s lucky to have snagged such a grandiose apartment. Montreal was never somewhere he envisioned himself living, but after a visit or two he fell in love with the place and as it turned out, he had the success and the money of a five year boyband stint to be able to relocate.

He makes to move into the living room, but he’s drawn back to the window. He splays his hands wide on the glass. He thinks how paradoxically strange it is that he feels more alone here than anywhere else.

1.741 million people and he doesn’t know a single one.

He’s all worked up now, and he needs a cigarette. He paces across the foyer and through the living room, out into a meandering corridor that branches off into bedroom after bedroom (never slept in), and towards the terrace. It’s the dead of winter and Louis’ only wearing boxer shorts and a thin t-shirt, so he feels the chill through to his bones when he slides the door open and steps outside. He shuffles over to the edge of the balcony and hangs over.

He counts to ten out loud. He’d worry about looking crazy if he thought that anyone was watching, or if anyone would care enough if they were.

A half pack of Marlboro sits on the outdoor dining table. The table is big enough to seat six but he’s only ever ate at it on his own, last summer. He pushes that thought aside and grabs at the packet of cigarettes, drawing two out. He lights one up and pokes the other behind his ear. 

The first drag burns his lungs in all the right places. He’s always smoked for the catharsis of it more than anything else. Never to look cool, like most of the critics assumed. Not because it was part of the ‘lifestyle’, or whatever. The truth was, it was the least self destructive habit he could have taken up. He needs it more than he needs to breathe, sometimes. 

He smokes the two cigarettes in quick succession. It does take the edge off, much to his relief, but paired with the cool wind, he’s now more awake than ever. Sleep deprivation will be his death, probably. He thinks he’d be okay with that. Of all the ways to go, it’d be the least painful. Physically, at least. Louis already has a tortured mind so it can’t get much worse. Can it?

He ponders this while he paces the length of the balcony for no reason other than because he can. It’s too cold for him to be out here too long, and he’s already feeling the prickle of goosebumps across his bare skin. He kicks his sock clad feet against the glass edge and heaves a sigh before heading back inside. The patio door slams shut behind him and then he’s stood in the dark of the living room wondering what to do with himself for the hundredth time today. 

He turns the lights on, first. All of them. He hadn’t realised he’d been sat in pitch blackness for the majority of the night. He’d been too occupied with his own thoughts and too intrigued by the streets below. He could get dressed and go down there. He has money, lots of it, even - he could stumble into an expensive bar or a strip club and waste his energy on alcohol and girls who are paid to give him attention. The mere thought of that makes him feel empty and uneasy. He could go for a drive, but he’d be afraid of rear ending his car. He’s definitely not alert enough to get behind the wheel, and he may be stupid, but he’s not that stupid. It’d be suicide, for sure, to step outside his building. As much as Louis has toyed with the idea, he’s not ready.

His feet seem to move on their own accord and the rest of his body follows, stopping at the edge of the couch. It’s a corner piece, made of leather and Louis hates it. It’s so uncomfortable and he has no idea why he bought it. He sits on it, anyway. The TV remote balances on the arm rest, and it wobbles even more when Louis fingers the rubbery ‘ON’ button. He can’t find it in him to channel surf, so he gawps mindlessly at whatever’s playing. 

He very nearly misses the call when it does come through. Drowned out in the noise of the blaring television, he chalks the  _ ring ring ring _ up to his imagination. No one wants to speak to Louis. No one would spare him a thought and call him up. Especially not in the middle of the night.

He almost lets it ring off. Then he registers the buzzing against the couch next to him. 

Louis can’t remember the last time he came to life so quick. He dashes for the phone, scrambling under the cushions until he finds it and holds it and sees the caller ID flash up across the screen. His heart rate soars and his throat is so tight when he tries to breathe that he feels like he might pass out.

Answering is a no brainer. This is what he’s been waiting for. He slides the ringer to accept.

“...Hello?” He barely recognises his own voice when he manages to choke out a greeting. 

The line is quiet for a beat. He can hear breathing, and it’s enough.

“Hey, Louis.”

Louis never thought he’d hear that voice again. Never in a million years. He’d had his lifetime’s worth, had used it all up selfishly and now it would be gone indefinitely. That voice was the symbol of a lot of things for Louis. It was growing up and finding his feet and feeling important. It was hope and it was love and it was familiarity. Hearing that voice again felt like coming home.

“ _ Zayn _ ,” Louis sobs into the speaker. “God.”

He’s thought up this scenario plenty of times, has imagined how it would play out. He’s rehearsed the things he’d say over and over, but he can’t seem to formulate them now, no matter how practiced he is. 

“It’s been so fucking long.” Zayn notes, voice trembling with it. Louis can hear it through the phone and it breaks him. He never blamed Zayn for what happened. Not once. Knowing that Zayn was -  _ is _ \- hurting too is enough to load the heavy weight on Louis’ shoulders even more. 

Louis really wishes he was eloquent enough to say what he needs to say. He’s always been terrible with words, finds it easier to express his emotions through action instead. But Zayn is god knows where and Louis is here in his too-big too-lavish apartment in a city that feels alien to him. 

“Where are you, Z?” Louis says, just about a whisper. He’s too choked up to say anything else at this point, his mind working too fast for his mouth to keep up with. He’s crying, too, lips wet with saline tears and throat tight with those that are unshed. 

“I’m in London. Just got off a flight from LA. When I stepped on the tarmac you were the first person on my mind and I just… I had to call. I’m sorry.” 

Louis hates himself. He hates that Zayn feels the need to apologise when Louis is the one who pushed him away. Louis did this. He distanced himself and he lost his best friend and for what? Pride? Self righteousness? Louis threw the one thing that made him happy away and Zayn was the one saying sorry?

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare apologise, okay?” Louis reprimands, and it’s only now that he notices that his hands are shaking. He tries to relax into the seat but it’s so damn  _ uncomfortable _ . “There are so many things I need to say that you need to hear but I can’t do it now. Not like this.” 

Louis knows that Zayn is nodding on the other end, face soft and understanding. He’s always like that, and Louis knows him too well to assume he’d react differently. “I’ll be here, Lou. Always.”

And like that, Louis feels his entire body loosen up. He can breathe again, for what feels like the first time in months. His eyes are heavy like he could sleep, and his skin turns warm as the blood starts to pump through his veins. He never knew that hearing a single word spoken from Zayn’s mouth would fix him. Or maybe he isn’t fixed, maybe he never will be. But he feels like he could be, as long as he has Zayn.

Louis made the mistake of losing him once. He’s not going to let it happen again.

“I love you. I’m sorry for what I did. You never deserved that.” Louis tries not to let his mind wander too much. For a long time after Zayn left the band, he held a grudge and never agreed to reconcile with Zayn no matter how much his best friend reached out. Louis never once considered that it was hard for Zayn, too, and that he needed support. Zayn had needed him and he’d made it clear that he needed him, but Louis was too up his own arse to see it. 

A year and a half later, he likes to think that he’s done his penance. “I’ve suffered enough to last a lifetime, mate, I don’t know about you. I’m ready to have you back in my life.” Louis admits honestly, the words coming out all at once when he exhales. He feels so much lighter inside, like a hole has been filled.

“I’ll fly out to you, tomorrow. You’re still in Canada?” It seems an easy enough decision for Zayn. Sometimes, Louis thinks, the fame and fortune is worth it.

“Yes.”

“Okay. I love you, Louis. Try to get some sleep.” 

Louis nods. Zayn is  _ coming to see him _ . “I’ll see you.”

Neither of them hang up at first. They listen to the sound of each other breathing, and then the call ends. Louis sits on the couch and tries to piece together what just happened. It all seems a bit far fetched and he’s scared for a minute that he’s dreaming, but then he checks his phone log and sure enough, Zayn’s number is there.

His body feels immensely tired. His mind even more so. There are too many emotions for Louis to process all at once, and he ends up falling asleep on his god awful couch, certain to wake up with an aching back in the morning.

It’s a small price to pay. 

In Montreal, there are 1.741 million people. By tomorrow there’ll be one more. Louis knows now, that he can go anywhere in the world and not know a single person, but he’ll always have Zayn.

Louis will always be home as long as Zayn is there, too.


End file.
